


Moving In or Moving On: The Hawkeye Remix

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: The "Moving" Series [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (using the Internalized Homophobia tag because there's no Internal Biphobia official tag), Angst, Demisexual Clint, Demisexuality, Getting Together, Happy Tower Time AU, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, It’s more like confusion about being demi than it is any real internal hatred, M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Misunderstandings, Pining, Remix, Stark Tower, demiromantic Clint, misunderstanding sexuality, very mild internalized biphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8366371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: Coulson’s back from his three-year jaunt in the Bus, and now he’s moving into the tower. The thing is, he confessed a pretty big thing to Clint, and Clint has no idea what to do with this new information. It should be fine, because they’re both adults and Clint trusts Coulson with his life, but Clint can’t seem to get it out of his head long enough to stop fucking up.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts).



> This will make absolutely no sense if you haven’t read Moving In or Moving On. Actually, if it’s been a while since you read it, I’d suggest reading it again first, because this remix tells the same story from Clint’s POV, and I didn’t always include the full scene, just Clint’s reactions. Also, please be aware that this is my take on Clint being demisexual and demiromantic, and that not every demi experience is the same. This is just how it works for him (and me).
> 
> A HUGE thanks to Ralkana for the beta. She is awesome and lovely and needs to visit Vegas soon.
> 
> For Raiining, who was supposed to get it for her birthday 2 years ago, and is instead getting it now, months after this year’s birthday. Sorry, darling. I hope it was worth the wait!

“Are you trying to get me fired, Stark?”

Clint winced at Agent Schrader’s shrill tone. He had some sympathy for her, of course, but he also thought she should be in better control of herself. Yes, Tony was being even more difficult than usual—disobeying direct orders, devising and implementing plans that were more complicated and dangerous than they had to be, and outright taunting the media—but she was SHIELD. SHIELD agents should be able to keep their calm, no matter what. No matter _who_.

“Come now, Schrader,” Tony replied, feigning hurt. “I would never jeopardize someone’s income, their source of livelihood, that way.”

“Then _why?_ Why would you—”

“If, however, you were to be reassigned, by Fury’s order or your own request, well. That would be a joyous day for all.”

“Tony,” Bruce began, but Tony was already strolling out of the briefing room.

There was silence for a moment, then Schrader straightened her shoulders. “Do you all feel this way?”

“Of course not,” Steve soothed. “Tony’s just . . .”

“Tony’s just what?”

“Angling for something.” Everyone turned to Clint, and he shrugged. He didn’t know what it was that Tony wanted any more than they did. “Don’t look at me. That’s all I got.”

Agent Schrader threw her hands up and stalked away, leaving them to their after-actions. Once she was far enough away, Thor asked, “What is it that Tony is after?”

Clint shrugged again—because he really did not know—but Natasha calmly tapped at her tablet and said, “Not what. Who.” Then, at the resultant silence, she looked up. “The timing, gentlemen. Think about when this escalation started, and who Fury sent the last time Stark needed a babysitter.”

“Didn’t he send you?” Bruce asked.

“Covertly,” she answered with a smile. “But whenever Stark needed handling, Fury would openly send—”

“Son of a bitch!” The exclamation startled even Clint, and he was the one who’d said it.

“He’ll never admit to caring, but . . .” Natasha shrugged. “He’s building a new apartment. Totally gutted the guest quarters on sixty-eight. Not hard to guess who it’s for.”

“I knew he cared,” Steve ventured. “I mean, he was clearly affected by his death, and I know he’s happy he’s back, but I didn’t realize . . . I thought they didn’t know each other all that well.”

“Coulson has a habit of getting under your skin,” Clint said with a wry twist to his mouth. He remembered clearly his own initial interactions with the steadfast, suited agent. Clint had gone from antagonizing him to trusting him completely within the span of three missions, a record that had only been broken by Natasha. “It’s his personal superpower.”

Nat sent him a small grin, hinting at approval and something else he couldn’t quite identify. “And Tony likes people who won’t take his shit.”

“Coulson’s other superpower,” Clint mumbled, and refused to blush when they all looked at him. “What? Coulson’s really good at knowing when and how to call people on their shit, and when to let it slide.”

“He’s speaking from personal experience,” Nat added, her head bent over her StarkPad once again. “A lot of personal experience.”

“Of course he is,” Bruce said on a chuckle. “You guys were good friends, huh?”

Clint gave a sort of shrug, because that was probably overstating it. “I trust him. I like him. Not sure we were ever _friends_. Coulson’s too . . . Coulson to need friends.”

“Everyone needs friends,” Steve corrected gently. 

“Especially a warrior,” Thor added.

Clint flashed them a grin. “Not Coulson. Haven’t you guys heard the rumors? He’s a robot, an alien, an LMD. He was hatched in a lab. He sleeps with his files. His paperwork is way more important in his life than inanimate objects should be. He— Hey!” Clint rubbed the back of his head and glared at Natasha.

“You don’t have enough friends to insult the ones you _do_ have, so hush up. Coulson is most certainly your friend, even if you’ve always been too stupid to recognize it.” She hit enter on her tablet with finality and stood, whacking Clint in the head one more time as she passed him.

“Ow.”

“So what do we do about Tony?” Steve asked, and Natasha paused at the door.

“Let it play out,” she advised. 

“But Agent Schrader—”

“Will be fine,” Natasha insisted. “She won’t be fired or demoted, just reassigned. Fury knows how difficult Tony can be, especially when it’s deliberate. Let it happen, Steve. It’ll be good. Tony’s not the only one who wants Coulson here.”

And just like that, Operation Let Tony Be a Dick was in full swing. Bruce only ever intervened when Tony was about to cross a serious line, Steve only pulled him back when there was a real danger, and both Thor and Hulk delighted in some of Tony’s more destructive plans. Clint would never admit to disregarding more orders than usual, and Nat just sat back and enjoyed the show.

When Agent Schrader finally resigned her position in a huff, everyone was too busy hiding their grins to mention that construction on the sixty-eighth floor had wrapped up the night before.

Fury took one look at them all and sighed. “I’ll call him up.”

Clint grinned at Tony, who was grinning back at him. Clint suspected Tony’s hands were clenched under the table in an effort to refrain from offering a fist-bump, but that was okay. So were Clint’s.

 

_________

 

Clint’s hands clenched as soon as he was out of Coulson’s office. All told, he was pretty proud of himself. He hadn’t freaked out, he hadn’t acted like an ass or insulted Coulson. More importantly—and far more likely to have happened—he hadn’t said anything monumentally stupid, like how Coulson only _thought_ he loved Clint.

Because, see, nobody loved Clint. Not . . . Not like that. Not ever. It just wasn’t something that happened. Sure, he knew he was attractive, and he could turn on the charm whenever he wanted, but any infatuation people felt for him only lasted a short time, until they discovered what a fuckup he was.

Six years, though. That had been the biggest surprise. That was . . . Clint didn’t know what to make of that. Coulson was smarter than that. It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Coulson had been gone for three years, so maybe that played into it. Maybe he’d have stopped crushing on Clint if he’d been around. If he’d seen some of the ridiculous situations Clint had managed to get himself into. Maybe, in his head, he’d built up his attraction to and slight affection for Clint, until it had _seemed_ like love. Maybe now that he was home—and living with the team, with Clint—he’d realize just how stupid the notion was.

Yeah. Clint uncurled his fists and flexed his fingers. Yeah. That’s what would happen. Coulson would get over it. He’d see that Clint didn’t deserve his . . . _regard_. He didn’t really deserve anyone’s, least of all Coulson’s. Coulson was far too good for pretty much anyone, let alone an idiot like Clint.

Realizing his hands were clenched again, Clint shook them out just once, then made his way to the range.

 

_________

 

Clint did his best not fidget as he waited for Coulson. He’d been trying so hard to do the right thing, to give Coulson any space he might need while still making him feel welcome. He hadn’t wanted to intrude, hadn’t wanted to invade his safe place. He’d wanted to make sure Coulson had a Clint-Free Zone, just in case he needed it. But the super fancy, super expensive tie Tony had bought him was now covered in pizza sauce and motor oil (totally not his fault!) and Coulson had been Clint’s only hope for a replacement on such short notice.

If the guy ever came back with a tie.

Clint’s eyes flicked around the room again. He’d already found the obvious spots where weapons would be hidden, and some less obvious ones as well, including a few nearly invisible seams in the walls—Tony had certainly known his audience when he’d built the place. Clint hadn’t wanted to explore further than that, though. His exits and possible weapons, yes; Coulson’s personal stuff, no. But Coulson had said to make himself at home, and he wouldn’t have left Clint alone in the room if he didn’t want him to see anything. So Clint shifted over to the books and movies on the shelves, running the titles through his head and not coming up all that surprised at the genres, when something higher up caught his attention.

It was red, white, and blue, and fucking ugly as sin. It was cheap and badly painted. It was also horribly familiar. A lead weight settled in Clint’s stomach, and he turned away from the shelves, desperately looking for more Cap memorabilia. Surely that wasn’t Coulson’s only piece. Or even his favorite piece. It couldn’t be. The rest of it had to be back in another area of his apartment, or, like, in specialized storage or something. The only reason that stupid fucking doll was out at all was because it had absolutely no value. 

Right?

 _So why keep it at all, then?_ a cruel voice whispered, and Clint shoved it away when he heard quiet footsteps approaching. He turned back to the bookcase and bent a little at the waist, pretending to examine the DVDs. He doubted it would fool Coulson, but it had to be done, so they both had plausible deniability.

Coulson came closer down the hallway, and then there was a sudden hitch in the rhythm of the footsteps, the slightest sound that didn’t belong. Clint straightened and turned, curious, because Coulson wasn’t one to falter or shuffle in any way. He tried to school his expression into one of neutrality, but he honestly wasn’t sure how successful the attempt was.

Not that it mattered. Coulson wasn’t even looking at his face.

 _Oh_. At any other time, on any other day, Clint would have smirked. He had a nice ass. He knew that. People looked. People were welcome to look. It didn’t bother him. Just the opposite, in fact; he liked the attention. But Coulson wasn’t looking at him with simple lust or naked want. Sure, those were _there_ , but there was something more there too, something Clint hadn’t ever seen before. Not directed at him, anyway. And when Coulson wrenched his gaze up, his face went tight and his eyes flashed something that might have been sadness, even if it was for only a second. But Coulson was a better, braver man than Clint would ever be, and he pushed forward, two ties in hand.

Clint had to look away. He held still as Coulson held up first one tie and then the other, and almost missed it when a decision was made. He managed to take the loaner tie and express some appreciation, and pretended not to notice or care when Coulson stepped away as Clint worked the thing under his collar. He did notice though. Even though he refused to look straight at him, Clint could see Coulson by his coffee table, fussing with some files, the line of his back straight even as he bent and stretched to reach a wayward sheet of paper. Clint looked more fully then, because he wasn’t gay or anything, but if Coulson could look at Clint, then Clint could look right back.

It was . . . decent. Better than decent, actually. Rounder than Clint had remembered. Not that he’d ever really _looked_ before. Not like that. Not that he was looking like that right now. He wasn’t. He was just curious. Aesthetically speaking, Coulson had a nice ass. Clint could admit that. Didn’t meant he wanted to _do_ anything about it.

Clint turned away, back to the shelves, and tightened the knot around his neck. He had to say something, or think something, _anything_ to derail his train of thought. “I can’t believe you still have that,” he blurted out in desperation, and then tried not to wince. To cover, he reached up with one finger extended, not even sure what he was doing, or why.

The little doll fell over. “Shit.” He reached for it, but his big-ass knuckles knocked into a frame, toppling it over. He made a desperate grab for that instead, catching it before it fell off the top of the bookcase, and trying to put it exactly as it had been before. “Sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine,” Coulson said, but he also came over to set things right, and Clint let his hands drop back to his sides. He watched as Coulson straightened the picture and lovingly propped that stupid doll up against the base of an old clock.

Clint didn’t understand it. “It was a gag gift, you know.” The words slipped out, and he willed himself to just shut up. He willed it, but it didn’t happen. His mouth kept moving and his voice kept making sounds. “Something for you to laugh over and then throw away.” That was stupid; Coulson was well aware the doll had been a joke, a gift meant to poke fun and tease. He’d kept it anyway. He’d kept it and now he was settling it with extra attention and care, and Clint didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I know.”

“I got it at a swap meet,” Clint explained, rushing in his effort to get Coulson to _understand_. “It wasn’t even for sale, that’s how bad it was. The guy just gave it to me.”

Coulson backed up a step and turned to face Clint, his eyes looking into Clint’s dead on. And, Jesus Christ, what was Clint supposed to do with that? With everything he saw there? “I know.”

He cast about for something to say, tried licking his lips to buy some time. It was just a stupid _doll_. A homemade _clothespin_ doll. It wasn’t even a collectable. It was just this shitty little thing, but Coulson had kept it. He’d _kept_ it, because Clint hadn’t ever given him anything else. They’d known each other for years, had spent birthdays and holidays together in safe houses and criminal dens all over the world. They’d bled all over each other, saved each other’s asses more times than Clint could count, had traveled together and gotten drunk together and had shared beds and tents and even fucking blanket nests on the ground. Clint liked Coulson, and Coulson, apparently, fucking _loved_ Clint. Coulson had gotten Clint all manner of things over the years: equipment, food, personnel, better bows, trick arrows. The good kind of salty Dutch licorice direct from Rotterdam, a pair of chopsticks with deadly scalpels hidden in them from Gansu Province, an arrowhead from a ridiculous souvenir shop in New Mexico. 

Clint had never returned the favor. He’d never so much as offered Coulson a pack of his favorite cheap-ass donuts. Sure, he’d handed him coffee and had picked up food when he’d been asked to, but only on missions. Only when it had been his turn to do the running, or he’d been heading to the coffeepot anyway. Fuck, he’d even lost that fucking arrowhead a few days later, somewhere on his way back to New York. He’d just shrugged it off then, not even caring, not understanding.

But Coulson had kept that goddamned doll. He’d kept that goddamned doll on his goddamn shelf in his goddamn _living room_ , and Clint felt like a piece of shit. Because what kind of friend was he—what kind of _man_ was he—that that was the only thing he’d ever given him?

“You were supposed to throw it away,” he tried again, because why couldn’t Coulson _see_?

“I didn’t.” The words were simple. They were short and so simple but they were fucking _packed_ with truth and meaning, and Clint did not know what to do.

He fidgeted, shoving his closed fists into his pockets until he remembered Tony’s familiar lecture about smooth lines and quality fabrics. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to _be_. How could he even exist on the same plane as this man? He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. “I should go.”

“Okay.” The line of Coulson’s body softened, and Clint was pretty sure it was a deliberate move, but he wasn’t positive. Maybe Coulson just wanted him gone, wanted him out of his private space. “You don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah.” As desperate as Clint was to escape, he found he couldn’t move. He couldn’t just leave it like that. He felt himself go up on his toes for just a moment, and he licked his lips again. “Thanks for the tie,” he offered, because he needed to get back on solid ground and because Coulson appreciated manners. Which meant he should probably also apologize for knocking over Coulson’s stuff, and for being horribly awkward and probably rude. And for, well. Everything. “And, you know. Sorry, si—” He cut himself off in horror, remembering Coulson’s directive not to call him “sir” when they were discussing the . . . situation. He didn’t know if this counted as talking about it, but better safe than sorry. “Sorry.”

He turned tail and ran. Okay, he walked. Quickly. First to the door, then through it.

He wondered if Coulson was watching him go.

 

_________

 

Clint had gotten better about being in crowded rooms. He still didn’t _like_ it, but he’d gotten better about it. He’d had to learn to deal with it, given the number of charity events, press conferences, and conventions the team always had to deal with. This kind of thing was the worst though. He’d made a joke to Steve once, about being paraded around like a monkey in a suit, and Steve had laughed and agreed, clapping Clint on the shoulder and telling him it could have been worse. “So much worse, Clint. Trust me.”

But Steve had found some conservative fat cats to annoy with his liberal politics and views, and Tony was in his element, charming and schmoozing, leaving Clint to his own devices. That wasn’t exactly smart under the best of circumstances, and certainly not when he was feeling so off-center. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand—which was mostly for show anyway—and he was just starting to contemplate an escape to the roof when a beautiful woman broke away from a group and made a beeline for him.

He recognized her immediately as the groupie who’d hung off Tony for a while before Steve had pointedly mentioned Pepper. The speed with which she’d shifted her focus to Steve had been dizzying, and Clint had stifled his laughter in a rare sip from his tumbler. When Steve had politely but firmly turned her down, she’d left in a clear attempt to save face. Clint had been mildly affronted not to be included in her efforts, but it wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar situation. If he got upset every time people preferred Captain America or Iron Man or Thor, he wouldn’t have any energy left to do anything else.

Anyway, it was looking now like his turn had come, and he eyed her curves as she approached. Steve might have all kinds of rules and ethics about sex, but Clint didn’t. Or, well, he _did_ , but they weren’t as strict or as limiting as Cap’s. She didn’t look tipsy, she was probably in her right mind, and she had no objection to Clint’s bald statement of, “Only once, and I don’t care who you tell as long as it isn’t any kind of media.”

They found a room filled with stacked banquet chairs; Clint blocked the door and lifted her against the wall, sliding in just a few minutes later. She clutched his shoulders with a moan, and everything in her gaze was lust and sexual greed. Clint dipped his head to kiss her neck and refused to think about anything else. He began to thrust in earnest and she eagerly took him in, over and over. Her hands shifted, and her fingers crushed the width of his tie, now hanging loose and open over his shoulders.

“Careful,” he cautioned, holding her steady with the weight of his body while he lifted one hand to correct her grip. “It’s not mine.”

The look she shot him clearly said, “Seriously?” but she only offered a throaty apology and let go of the delicate fabric. Clint took a moment to smooth the tie against his shoulder, only resuming his previous activity when she shifted her hips against his impatiently. He let her draw him back in, and made a conscious decision to make it as pleasurable as possible for her.

 _Sex with a gorgeous woman, Barton_ , he chastised himself. _Fuck Coulson’s tie. Fuck fucking Coulson_.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and put his thumb to her clit, working her to climax and letting it carry him over too.

He noticed Steve noticing them when they reentered the main gallery, and he gave a small sigh, sure he was in for some kind of gentle lecture. Still, he managed a smile for her, kissed her cheek, and strutted off to the bar. He’d lost his prop glass somewhere along the way, and it was just easier to look the part than to decline drinks all night.

The lecture didn’t come until the next morning, and Clint _knew_ Coulson had caught at least the tail end of it. There was no definitive sign, really—Coulson was way too good for that—but Clint would have bet his best bow the guy had heard enough. Clint knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had nothing to feel guilty for (except, perhaps, the slight wrinkles in the tie), but he was having a hard time looking Coulson in the eye. When Coulson left, Clint finally threw the scrub brush down and turned the water off, only to find Tony eyeing him thoughtfully.

“Don’t,” Clint instructed.

“I’m just trying to figure out who’s more mad at who, and why. Did you get awful stains on his tie too?”

“No. And nobody’s mad at anybody,” Clint corrected as he slid his bowl into the dishwasher. “I think he’s still adjusting.”

“Adjusting,” Tony repeated, his voice flat.

“Yes.”

“Clint,” Steve started, and Clint shut the dishwasher door a little harder than he’d meant to.

“Leave it alone. Seriously, it’s no one’s business but Coulson’s. Don’t poke at this, okay?” He looked from Steve, who nodded, to Tony, who still looked like he was trying to figure out a particularly intriguing puzzle. “Tony. You worked hard to get him here. Don’t fuck it up now.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I did not ‘work hard.’ It’s not like I give a shit what the guy does.”

“Or where he lives,” Steve teased with a smile.

Tony jabbed a finger in Cap’s direction, partly in recrimination and partly, Clint suspected, for a lack of anything to say to counter that. He left them bickering and decided to find a one-hour dry cleaner for Coulson’s tie. He’d just leave it in the office as instructed, and maybe give Coulson some space for a while.

It would probably do them both some good.

 

_________

 

“Clint.”

“Natasha,” Clint replied without taking his eyes off the target. It wasn’t that he needed to look; he just didn’t want to look at her.

“A dartboard is not a date.”

That statement made no sense. “What?” Two darts hit the bull’s-eye simultaneously.

“People—certain people—are under the impression that you haven’t been hanging around the tower because you’ve suddenly upped your social life.”

Clint turned finally and reached for the beer he’d left on a nearby table. “I had one date. A few weeks ago. It didn’t work out.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “But you had sex about thirty minutes ago,” she accused.

“Creepy, Nat.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t spying on you. Your knees are . . . telling.”

He followed her gaze to the knees of his jeans, which were lightly stained. He shrugged. “She appreciated the gesture,” he said. “And then returned it.”

Natasha moved to one of the tall stools around the table and settled in. “What are you doing, Clint?”

He shrugged and resumed his throwing stance. “It’s just sex. Not like you haven’t seen me have it before.”

“I have no problem with casual sex,” she said, ignoring his comment. “But it’s not casual when you’re so determined to have it. When you’re using it to ignore another issue.”

Clint said nothing, loosing three darts this time. But when Natasha remained quiet too, he gave in. He wasn’t going to beat her at her own game. “I’m not ignoring anything. I’m just trying to give the guy some space, okay? If I look for company while I’m out and about, well, that’s not really any of your business.”

“He doesn’t want space,” she argued, bypassing the matter of her nosiness entirely.

“Bullshit.”

“He doesn’t. He wants to know why you won’t look at him, why you’re avoiding him. It’s making him think he’s done something wrong.”

“He hasn’t,” Clint insisted, setting the dart he’d been preparing to throw on the table rather harshly.

“ _I_ know that. But he doesn’t.”

Clint shook his head. “He’s too smart for that, Nat. He has to know it isn’t anything he’s done. It’s just . . . awkward. I’m trying to do the right thing, okay?”

“By having meaningless sex right under his nose?”

Clint ran a hand through his hair and exhaled noisily. “It’s not like I bring them home. Anyway, it isn’t really his business either. I’m allowed to do whatever the fuck I want. I like sex.” 

Natasha’s gaze sharpened and Clint knew immediately he’d said too much. “Do you?”

Clint shrugged, too tired to bluster his way through it. Sex, for him, was fine. It was something he did because he was supposed to, and because it gave him something to do, something to focus on. It was usually fun while it lasted, but it wasn’t the end all, be all society made it out to be. “I’m good at it.”

“You’re good at lots of things.”

Clint snorted. “Shooting. Sex. Throwing darts.” He punctuated that statement by throwing the previously abandoned dart and hitting the bull’s-eye without looking. “Physical shit. What Coulson wants . . . Or what he thinks he wants . . . I’m no good at that. I’m not . . . Anyway, I’m not gay, so.”

“Neither is he.”

Clint rolled his eyes. She knew what he meant, she was just being difficult. “Semantics. I’m not gay. I’m not bi. I’m not . . . I don’t want to fuck guys, okay?”

She punched him in the arm. “It’s not all about sex, you idiot.”

He hit her back, but lightly. “Whatever. I like girls. Women,” he added hastily off her look. “Grown-up people of the female persuasion.”

“Well that’s too bad,” Natasha said after a moment of quiet. “Because I think he really loves you.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, his stomach twisting. He’d come to that conclusion too. That was sort of the problem. Coulson loved Clint, and Clint didn’t know what to do with that. He hadn’t ever had that before. He fiddled with the beer bottle, twisting it around and watching his hands. “Am I a total shit for kind of liking it?” he asked quietly.

Natasha didn’t say anything, and Clint finally looked up, afraid she would confirm that he was, in fact, a complete asshole. But she reached out and stilled the beer in his hand, letting their fingers brush. “Not a total shit, no. But don’t ever let him know that. You’ll just confuse him and make it harder for him. You have to be fair to him, Clint.”

“I’m _trying_.”

“I know. You’re doing your best. It’s not your fault you’re kind of a dumbass.”

He would take offense, but she was pretty much right. She usually was.

 

_________

 

Clint remembered.

If anyone asked, he was going to say he didn’t. Hell, he was going to pretend, to himself, that he didn’t. The name of the game here was denial. It had to be, for his sanity. But for now, lying in a plush, comfortable bed in a fancy, ugly hotel room, Clint remembered.

Natasha had told him not to do it. At one point, she’d tried to physically stop him, even if not to her full strength. He remembered a headlock as she asked him to reconsider, and he remembered being adamant that he needed to talk to Coulson. That Coulson should know. Because Clint had jumped off the Eiffel Tower that night, and he hadn’t thought much of it, sure that someone would catch him. It was only after the fight was over that he’d realized the full impact of what he’d done. Only when he’d seen Coulson’s pale face, held so carefully in a neutral expression, had Clint understood. Coulson had looked at him, and his fingers had _twitched_ , just ever so slightly. But he’d only given a single sharp nod, told them all they’d done well, and had started coordinating the cleanup.

Clint had barely waited for Tony to get the bar cleared. He’d ordered his first drink as people streamed out and his second as Coulson settled in across the room with his tablet. Somewhere around his third he thought he should probably go apologize to Coulson. Natasha had held him off until drink five, tried the headlock on six, and had finally admitted defeat after his first sip of the seventh.

Clint groaned and flopped over, fighting back the nausea that he was positive wasn’t all alcohol and hangover-induced.

_“No one’s ever loved me before.”_

_“Phil? Don’t stop. Please?”_

_“I could try?”_

Clint’s fingers curled tightly in the sheets, as if the physical strain could take away the memories. He’d offered. He wasn’t even . . . He was straight, but he’d offered.

Coulson had turned him down.

Clint was still surprised by the swoop in his gut that thought elicited. He decided it was because he’d been so fucking needy, and way too honest. It wasn’t at all because he’d leaned in to kiss Coulson and _Coulson had told him no_. It wasn’t that at all. 

It was just that he should have listened to Nat. He shouldn’t have said a fucking word; he’d probably really fucked with Coulson’s head, and that was a totally shitty thing to do. It had nothing to do with the fact that, at that moment, he’d really, really _wanted_ to kiss Coulson. Because that was just insanity brought on by alcohol and his own messed up sense of insignificance. It had nothing to do with actually wanting . . . anything else.

Someone knocked on his door, loud and insistent, and Clint jerked in surprise. His hand flew away from his mouth, where his thumb had been pressed against his bottom lip.

“Clint?” Steve. “Coulson wants us in the air in twenty minutes. You fit to fly?”

Clint sat up with a quiet groan, certain it wouldn’t carry through the door. “Yeah,” he said, stretching his limbs to see if that was the actual truth. He turned his head a few times, and the room stayed pretty steady, so he figured it was.

“If you’re sure,” Steve said, his voice hesitant through the door.

Clint frowned and stood up. He had a headache and was slightly nauseous, but nothing that would impede his ability to fly. Besides, Tony would be there next to him. He opened the door, hoping to quell Steve’s doubts, but the way Steve’s gaze zeroed in on him made Clint think maybe he should have checked a mirror first. “I’m fine, Cap,” he said, and only then noticed that his thumb was back to his lip, pressing lightly. He moved his hand, running it over his hair instead. “Just woke up, is all.”

Steve nodded. “Maybe let Tony take the pilot’s seat on this one though, okay?”

Clint shrugged. It was no skin off his nose. “Sure.” As long as he got to sit in the cockpit with his headphones on, and not in the back with the rest of them. With Coulson.

Not that it mattered. He could still feel the tension running between them, palpable even though they never directly addressed—or even properly looked at—each other, all the way back to New York.

 

_________

 

Coulson kept _looking_ at him. Never overtly and never when it would be easy for Clint to catch him at it. But with Clint’s habits of using his peripheral vision and always checking his six in reflective surfaces, he _did_ catch him. At first, Clint could see the slight hope in the guy’s eyes, and Clint felt like shit. Then again, he _had_ offered, and Coulson had turned him down, so Clint didn’t think he really needed to feel guilty.

It was just easier to go into avoidance mode again. He didn’t want to talk to Coulson, he didn’t want to think about Coulson. He stayed away, hanging out in his own apartment and the bar with the dartboard and going to lots of movies, where he could hide in the back row, in the dark, and ignore reality for a little while. He figured Coulson would get the message soon enough.

It took a few weeks for Coulson to stop looking quite so hopeful when he snuck glances at Clint. Instead, he started to look a little pensive, a little confused. Clint honestly didn’t know which was worse.

And then Coulson stopped looking at all.

It hit Clint one day, while he was doing some bench presses, that it had been a while since he’d caught Coulson looking at him. His arms shook a little, the weights rattling at the force of the realization. He didn’t even know what had made him think of it; Coulson wasn’t even in the gym. Clint’s gaze went to the mirrored wall anyway, but he only saw the reflection of Natasha and Bruce in the yoga room.

He finished his set, because it wasn’t important. It was just . . . It didn’t matter. It _didn’t_. So he finished his set and then did another just because he could. He ran on the treadmill after, and did his full cool down routine, and if he happened to keep one eye on the door the whole time, well, no one would ever be able to prove it.

He didn’t know why it bugged him so much. It should have been a good thing, right? Coulson was getting over it. Moving on or whatever. That was good. Clint shouldn’t have been able to hold his affection as long as he had, and okay, so, this was what he’d figured would happen way back when Coulson had first told him. The reality of Clint had finally overshadowed Coulson’s fantasy version, and that was good. Clint never would have been able to live up to what Coulson had wanted.

So. The message had been sent and received. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested, and Coulson was getting over it, which meant Clint could start hanging out at home more. He could watch movies with the team again, he could make a huge pot of chili for lunch or dinner and serve it up to his friends. He could do his workouts, even if Coulson was in the gym, and not have to worry he was putting on too much of a show. (Okay, even he could admit that had been kind of dickish on his part, but he’d always rationalized it by figuring it was better to err on the side of caution.)

He caught Coulson in the range one day, obviously near the end of practice if the mangled targets were anything to go by. “Wanna have a match, sir?” he asked before he could think better of it. He eyed the Glock in Coulson’s hand. “Your clip against seventeen arrows?”

Coulson agreed and Clint grinned. Things were leveling out. They’d be okay.

But when Clint won and turned to Coulson to say something witty and cocky and probably annoying, Coulson spoke first, his voice tight. “Well done, Barton.” Then he turned on his heel and left, leaving Clint to collect his arrows in a room that suddenly felt a lot colder.

Still, that might not have been about Clint himself. Maybe Coulson had just had a bad day. So Clint did his best to blow past it, and offered coffee a few mornings later. He was getting ready to pour his own cup and was right there, ready and willing, when Coulson turned him down tersely. _So maybe not quite over it yet_ , he thought as he moved out of the way. He watched as Coulson fixed his coffee to his liking and then left the kitchen without another word.

 _Definitely not over it yet_.

He tried again a couple days after that, offering lunch as a peace treaty. Coulson clearly wasn’t having it. The set of his jaw and the flash of his eyes finally drove the point home. Clint wasn’t welcome. Clint had fucked up.

Well, that was par for the course. Clint might not remember everything, but he remembered enough, even if he was pretending he didn’t. He wasn’t exactly sure where he’d completely cocked it up, but he knew that he had.

“You probably did,” Natasha agreed.

“Gee, thanks.”

She shrugged. “I can’t tell you for sure, since you won’t tell me exactly what you said to him—”

“I told you: I don’t remember.”

“Mm-hmm. Anyway, since you won’t tell me, I can only guess. You told him you liked it, that he cares for you. You told him it was important to you. You probably made some kind of dumbass move, touching him in some intimate manner, or you maybe even tried to kiss him because you’re a smart guy but you kind of suck at other people.”

“I do not!” He didn’t deny her all too accurate assessment of the situation, however. He couldn’t.

“You do. Anyway, he probably didn’t respond how you wanted, because you were drunk and he has morals. So now you’re feeling all wounded and rejected, he’s dealing with getting his hopes yanked around, and you’re trying to get him to pay attention to you again. Sound about right?”

“No,” Clint muttered, completely unconvincingly. “Anyway, I’m not trying to get him to pay attention to me. I’m just trying to get things back to how they were.”

“Oh. Silly me, I thought that _was_ how things were, what with the feeding you and camping out in medical for you and making sure you had everything you never knew you needed, to the point of haranguing R &D and Requisitions.”

“But that . . . That’s his _job_. He was just doing his job.”

“No, Clint. He wasn’t.”

“Well it’s not like now he’s going to send me into the field with faulty equipment or let me starve to death,” he snapped.

“Of course not. But he always went above and beyond for you.”

“He’d do that for anyone. That’s just how he is,” Clint argued, unwilling to let her be right.

“I don’t remember him buying anyone else souvenirs.”

“Ugh,” Clint said succinctly, and dropped his head to the table. It was way too early for this shit.

Natasha let the silence settle for only a moment, then poked him in the shoulder. “You promised me eggs.”

He grumbled, but immediately got up, only too happy to let the subject drop.

The subject came to life, however, as Coulson came in just a few minutes later. Not sure what else to do, and determined to prove Nat wrong, Clint greeted him and offered him breakfast.

Coulson turned him down, and Clint lost his temper.

It was wrong of him and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t _trying_ to fuck with Coulson. He honest to God wasn’t. He was doing the best he possibly could in a situation he’d never even imagined he’d be in, and Coulson was going to sit the fuck down and have some fucking eggs, end of story.

But once he’d slammed the plates down and sat, he didn’t know what to do. Or say. He wasn’t very hungry, really, suddenly feeling guilty for lashing out, for not being better at handling emotions and shit. And, maybe, a little, for Paris. He could feel Natasha looking at him, waiting, hoping against hope that he’d actually get his act together and say something to fix this.

Well. She would be waiting a long time.

“Did you and Tony ever get the balance right on the snare net arrows?”

Clint’s head snapped up, surprised but grateful, and he looked at Coulson for a moment before he had to slide his gaze away. “Not yet,” he admitted. “He’s supposed to work on them some more today, but you know how he gets.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Coulson’s nod, and the tiny, peacemaking smile. “Well. You’ll just have to show up and prod him along. I have no doubt you’ll be able to persuade him.”

Internally shoring himself up, Clint faced Coulson, and tried a smile of his own. “It’s true. I can be very persuasive when I want to be. It’s called persistence.”

“Really?” Natasha teased. “I always thought it was called whining.”

“You’re a riot, Nat.” What Clint meant, of course, was _Thank you_.

“Not all by myself, though I have helped to incite a few in my time.” _You’re welcome. Try not to fuck up again._

Clint pointed his fork at her. _Don’t. You know this isn’t easy._ “Funny girl.”

Coulson breathed a laugh, and Clint managed a more genuine grin. Things weren’t perfect, maybe, but they were better.

 

_________

 

Clint didn’t know why he ignored Coulson’s signal to let him up off the mat. He didn’t know what he was doing at all. All he knew was that, now, stretched out over Coulson, pinning him down, all the small touches, all the smiles, all stupid damn _need_ he’d felt to be near him over the past few weeks were settling deep in his stomach. He flashed back to Paris, to the drunken focus he’d leveled at Coulson’s mouth, to the want he’d felt in that moment.

He shouldn’t be feeling it now. He wasn’t drunk; he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since Paris. But there it was, heavy and weird, hanging in the air between them.

Clint pushed himself off suddenly, confused and ashamed, and attempting to cover with a stupid comment about winning a point in their sparring session. What the fuck was he _doing?_ He wasn’t gay, and he didn’t love Coulson, and he definitely didn’t want to kiss the guy. Things had been better, he’d worked hard to make them _better_ , and now he was fucking it all up again.

He could tell, because Coulson was rising slowly from the mat, his jaw set. 

Clint kept his eyes on the ground, almost afraid to look up and see his normally calm handler struggling to keep his composure. 

“Is it a game then, Clint?”

“No!” Surprised, Clint looked up, and his stomach sank even further. Coulson looked angry and disappointed, which Clint had always hated, from their very first op together. But he also looked hurt, _devastated_ , and Clint could not handle that. He looked away again, his head bowing in shame. “No, sir.”

There was silence that seemed to last forever. Then, “Well. When you figure out what it is, you let me know. Until then . . .”

Clint nodded, immediately understanding the unspoken request. He couldn’t blame the guy. Clint wasn’t playing a game—he wasn’t toying with him, for fuck’s sake—but he didn’t know what he _was_ doing. He definitely wasn’t being fair to Coulson, so, with a rough swallow, he turned on his heel and left the gym.

He left the tower.

He left the _country_.

And where did that get him? In Chișinău, holed up in one of several tiny SHIELD-held apartments on the outskirts of the city, being yelled at by Agent Lumbley. Yeah, okay, he had almost let his target get by him that morning, barely getting the shot in before the dude had turned the corner, but he _had_ bagged him. Green and Ramirez had been right there to drag the body away before anyone had so much as turned their head, and Budny had slipped right into the role now vacated by the target.

And, sure, he could admit his head wasn’t totally in the game. It hadn’t been for a while. But it wasn’t his _fault_. Goddamn Coulson, making Clint feel guilty for something he had no control over. It wasn’t his fault Coulson was stupid enough to think he loved Clint, and it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t feel the same.

He _couldn’t_. Because he was straight. Totally, completely, one hundred percent straight, and fuck Coulson, man. Fuck him for not just getting over it, fuck him for harboring the delusion for six goddamn years. Fuck him for making Clint ever second guess himself, for making him wonder What If, for leaving him restless and worried and so fucking guilt-ridden that he wasn’t sleeping. Now his temporary team was paying the price and Clint had to just stand there and take the discipline, because fucking Lumbley was fucking _right_.

It wasn’t fucking _fair_. Coulson would never yell at him like this. Coulson would ask him what was wrong, if he was feeling all right, if he was getting everything he needed from the team. Coulson would remind him that people were counting on him, and ask him to focus, but also remind him that, if he couldn’t, it was perfectly okay to ask for leave, to take care of himself.

“Do we understand each other, Barton?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, and gritted his teeth against the rise in his throat at the honorific and the realization that he fucking _missed_ Coulson.

“Dismissed.”

Clint stormed out of the room, cursing Lumbley and Coulson and himself all the way to his own quarters, two floors down. He could do better than this. He had to do better.

The next day, he threw himself off a roof to get the guy who was about to blow the whistle on Budny. He had a line, but he’d somehow miscalculated his trajectory. Winded and in pain, he still took the dude out, and then he was being transported to Odessa for care, and then, two days later, to New York.

Coulson was going to lose his shit.

 

_________

 

Coulson had absolutely lost his shit. To be fair, it wasn’t as though Clint had kept his cool. Coulson had _always_ been there, and Clint had gotten used to that. From the moment Clint had made specialist, Coulson had been in his ear, in his life. He wasn’t sure what it would be like if that changed. 

Unable to say that, unwilling to admit to being scared about what would happen next, and trying so hard not to dig deeper about why, Clint had turned mean. He’d crossed several lines, and he knew it. He’d known it the second each horrible thing had left his mouth, but he hadn’t been able to stop.

And now Coulson was staring at him, breathing heavily in a way Clint had never seen from him (not even when Coulson had raided an AIM compound alone, singlehandedly taking out everyone he’d come across from the front gates to the cell Clint had been in, and oh, _fuck_ , why hadn’t Clint seen it before?). If he’d looked devastated that day on the mats, he looked positively _shattered_ now.

Clint pretended not to see, keeping his eyes on the TV, not knowing what else to say, or how to fix it.

“You’re right,” Coulson said after a prolonged, terrifying pause. “I’m not being professional. Thank you for the reminder, Barton. Believe me, it won’t be a problem again.”

Coulson left and Clint closed his eyes.

A few minutes later the door opened softly, and Steve’s voice might have been an annoyance he didn’t want to deal with at the moment, but it also meant safety, so Clint kept his eyes shut. “Clint?”

“Yeah, Cap.”

“You doing okay?”

Clint shrugged. He knew he should give Steve a rundown of his injuries, report in and ease his team leader’s mind, but he just didn’t have it in him. He held up his hands instead, showing off his broken fingers.

“Yeah.” Clint heard the scrape of the chair as Steve settled in. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Clint cracked one eye open to glare a warning to Steve to not continue that line of thought.

A warning Steve didn’t heed. “You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Agent Coulson?”

Clint closed his eye again and held back a sigh. “No.”

“But—”

“Look, Steve,” Clint said, finally resigning himself to his fate and shifting in the bed with both eyes open. “I get that you’re concerned about team cohesion, but it’ll be fine, all right? He’ll get over it and it’ll be fine.”

“He’s leaving the team.”

“What?” Clint sat up as quickly as his cracked ribs and concussed brain would allow.

“He’s going to apply for a transfer.”

“Fury won’t approve it.” Clint wasn’t entirely sure of that, but he had to hold on to the thread of hope.

“Phil said he doesn’t think Fury will deny it, but, if he does, he’ll resign from SHIELD instead.”

That startled a disbelieving laugh out of Clint. “That’ll never happen. SHIELD is his life.”

“So why is he willing to walk away?”

That shut Clint up fast. He swallowed roughly and looked down to his bandaged fingers. The only answer he had was, “Because I fucked up,” but he couldn’t say that. He didn’t even entirely _understand_ it.

He was saved from having to answer by Natasha, who opened the door a lot less gently than Steve had. “What did you do?”

Maybe _saved_ was too strong a word. He glanced up at her, then back down again, and shook his head.

“Steve, would you give us a few minutes?”

“Sure.” When Steve had gone and Natasha had taken his place, Clint finally risked looking at her again. She didn’t look happy.

“Nat,” he cajoled, hoping she might soften.

She didn’t. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing!”

Natasha didn’t dignify that with a response, other than narrowing her eyes and tilting her head a fraction of an inch.

“He’s the one who can’t handle it,” he argued. “He’s the one who said nothing would change, that he didn’t expect anything from me, but fucking look where we are now! I can’t do _anything_ right, apparently, and he’s walking out! Why are you taking his side, anyway?”

“Clint,” she said, and her tone in that one syllable told him he was in for it. “You are my friend, my family, and I will always have your back. But Coulson is also a friend, and you, brother mine, have not been very nice to him lately.”

“That’s not true,” he protested. “We were fine! We were doing movie nights and team meals and everything! We were okay.”

“And you used those movie nights and team meals to torture him. To tease him. To test the waters of something you aren’t ready for.” 

He didn’t ask her what she meant by that, and interrupted to keep her from expounding. “I didn’t mean to! I was just being _friendly_.” Even he knew that didn’t hold much water. “I wanted things to get back to normal.”

“Whose version of normal? His, where he spent every day silently loving you, or yours, where you didn’t know and didn’t have to think about what that meant?”

“I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Both?”

“You can’t unring a bell, Clint. It’s out there. You know now how he feels, and it isn’t his fault you can’t keep it together.”

“Why is it on me?” he snapped. “Why do I have the be one to watch my every step?”

“If you could behave,” she shot back, “you wouldn’t have to. If you could just treat him the same as you always have, it’d be fine. But you’ve been very cruel, Clint. I know you didn’t mean to be, and I know you’re working some shit out, but he got caught in the crosshairs, and I don’t blame him one bit for choosing to leave.”

His head dropped again and he squeezed his eyes shut. “No,” he admitted, rough and quiet. “I don’t blame him either.”

Her hand landed gently on his wrist, warm and soft. “He’s giving us three weeks to find a replacement. There’s a clock on this now, _bratishka_. You have three weeks to figure it out. If you don’t, you have to let him go. You understand?”

He wanted to say no, to claim ignorance and pretend he had no idea what she was talking about. Instead, he nodded, and shifted his arm to take her hand as best he could with his broken fingers.

 

_________

 

Clint whooped in satisfaction and rappelled down the wall. New Liaison Simulation #3 flickered around him, and when his boots hit the ground, he was back in the training room instead of on the roof of an enemy compound.

Nat greeted him with a, “Nice work, Barton,” and Clint grinned at her. This was the first time they’d beaten #3 with any of the potential liaisons, and it had all come down to him.

“How’d you know,” Steve asked Agent Mangat, “that Hawkeye was the key?”

Mangat shrugged a slim shoulder, already pulling at the straps on her tac vest. “I remembered who designed the scenario.”

Clint’s joy disappeared as quickly as it had come. He spun around with a jerk and marched away. He bypassed the locker room and retreated straight to his apartment, skipping the debrief and evaluation. What did it matter? Mangat was the only one to beat all three simulations, and they only had six days until Coulson left. They all liked her (Clint maybe a little less, at the moment), and it wasn’t hard to know she was going to get the job.

Nearly two hours later, Tony showed up. Clint considered not answering the door, but he knew Tony would just find a way to be more annoying while locked out.

“What do you want, Stark?”

“Rude. Maybe I just want to check on your fragile feelings.” He pushed his way inside and Clint narrowed his eyes at him. “Or maybe I came to check on your progress in the journey of self-discovery.”

“Huh?”

“Wow, still stuck at the starting gate. I can think of another place you’re stuck. I’ll give you a hint: it starts with a _c_.”

Clint refused to shift nervously. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No? Here’s another hint then. It ends with a _t_. Starts with a _c_ , ends with a _t_ , and has the word ‘lose’ in the middle. Which is what you are about to do, my friend.”

“I’m not gay, Tony.”

Tony gave him a long, pitying look, and Clint felt his face turn thunderous. “I’ve got news for you, Apollo. You’re not straight.”

“Am too!”

“Jesus Christ. I’m not doing this sober.” Tony moved past him into the kitchen, zeroing in on Natasha’s vodka without error and pouring himself a shot. “You do know, don’t you, that gay and straight aren’t the only options?”

“‘Course I do,” Clint replied, petulantly crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. “There’s bi.”

“Oh my dear sweet summer child,” Tony intoned, then he knocked back the drink and poured another. “You want?” 

Clint shook his head.

“There’s bi,” Tony echoed, and he drank again. “There’s pan. There’s ace and grey and demi. There’s fluid. There’s queer.”

“I thought that was a bad term,” Clint interrupted.

“It’s mostly been reclaimed. There are some who don’t care for its use, but when someone chooses to use it as a label for themselves, I’m going to choose to accept that and use it with respect. Which makes it perfectly valid for this little discussion of ours. It’s sort of an umbrella term, or used when someone can’t or doesn’t want to narrow their sexuality down.” Tony filled the shot glass again. “Anyway, for each one of those, there are people who identify with it in a romantic sense, instead of sexual.”

“Give me that.” Clint swiped the drink from Tony and downed it. “What does this have to do with me?”

Tony looked incredulous for a moment, then said, “I know you think your trouble started when you found out Coulson likes you. But you know what I think? I think it started before then. I think it started years ago, when you got to know him. When you started to trust him.”

“I _like_ him, Tony. I don’t love him or anything.”

“Let me ask you something. When was the last time you looked at someone, saw someone, and thought, ‘Hot damn, I gotta hit that?’”

Clint shrugged. It didn’t work like that for him. He’d always kind of figured nobody ever really felt that way, that society and movies and shit said they should, so they thought they did, or acted like they did. “Is that important?”

“Is that—?” Tony stole the glass back, poured, and pounded the shot. “Yes, Merida. It’s important. It’s pretty much the whole basis of the definitions of sexuality.”

“Oh.”

“Do me a favor. Do some research. Start with asexual, demisexual, and biromantic. Or panromantic. Use JARVIS. He’ll keep your secrets.”

“I don’t think—”

“Six days.” That shut Clint up, and Tony pushed away from the counter, heading back to the door. “Also, think about this,” Tony said, looking back at Clint for a moment. “I never used the word ‘love.’ That was all you.”

Clint watched the door close behind Tony, then turned to brace both hands on the counter. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent Barton?”

Clint grabbed the bottle and measured out one last drink. “Can you pull up all that shit Tony just said and put it on my tablet?”

“Of course.”

On the table, Clint’s StarkPad lit up, and Clint slammed back the shot. “Here goes nothing.”

 

_________

 

Clint had spent five days reading. Reading and Googling and watching YouTube videos with all kinds of explanations. He’d found a site called Tumblr, and that had given him tons of useful information, after he’d had JARVIS filter through it first. But . . .

But, even with all that, he wasn’t entirely sure he really needed any of it. Yeah, maybe he was asexual, or at least on the spectrum, but so what? That certainly wasn’t going to get Coulson to stay. He could _maybe_ classify himself as aromantic, because he’d never had any kind of romantic feelings for anyone, but that could also be a byproduct of his job. SHIELD agents didn’t exactly have time to foster healthy relationships, and Clint had a hard time trusting anyone to let them get close enough to try.

Well, except Natasha, but he was pretty sure she _could_ choose to call herself aromantic, with a perfect textbook definition. So, no Natasha. Of course, there was still—

Clint sat up, kicking the sheet and blanket off violently. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. Five days of research and he was quite possibly more confused than when he’d started.

He checked the time on his phone and sighed. A quarter to two. Coulson would be leaving in less than twelve hours. Clint didn’t know what he was supposed to say to get him to stay, or if he should even try. He couldn’t make any promises, or declarations. He probably couldn’t love Coulson back, certainly not in the way the guy wanted. Fuck, Coulson probably didn’t even love Clint anymore, not after the horrible things Clint had said.

Which was for the best, right? That was what was supposed to happen. Coulson was _supposed_ to realize that Clint wasn’t anything special, that he was way beneath Coulson, that he didn’t deserve his affection.

Clint stood, suddenly unable to stay in the hushed apartment for one more second. The common areas were probably empty, but at least they had impression of life lingering on their walls. He’d grab some food, maybe some coffee, and turn on a documentary. Anything to distract his brain, to get him thinking about something other than labels and self-identifying and spectrums.

He didn’t get that far because, of course, Coulson was in the kitchen. Clint’s stomach flooded with . . . something. Something more than just nerves, and he stopped just inside the room as Coulson stood. It was imposing, the way he could do that, rise from his seat, graceful and composed but with a posture that screamed disappointment.

It was also hot as hell.

It slammed into Clint, then, just how sexy Coulson was. Just how much Clint wanted him, in every way imaginable, and just how badly he’d fucked everything up. 

Clint planted his feet as Coulson moved to the sink. Yeah, he had to look down and not at Coulson, and he nervously played with the string on his pants, but he’d been running for over a month, and he wasn’t going to do it anymore.

“Is there something you want, Barton?”

Clint cringed at the tone, but he took a breath and made himself look at Coulson. The sheer anger radiating off him made Clint look away again, and his voice caught a little as he asked, “You stopped, didn’t you? I made you stop.”

“You can’t have it both ways,” Coulson growled immediately, and Clint’s heart sank. “You don’t get to tell me to stop, and then be disappointed when I do. You don’t get to flirt with me one minute, and push me away the next—you don’t get to call me _pathetic_ —and then hope that nothing’s changed. You certainly don’t get to dictate my emotions. Not anymore.”

Clint nodded. It wasn’t any more than what he’d expected. What he deserved. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. That I’m not worth . . .” He shrugged, not sure what else to say. He’d never been deserving of Coulson’s admiration, not in that way, and it was better that Coulson had figured it out now instead of later, after Clint had done something even more monumentally stupid than all the shit he’d already done.

There was a pause, and when Clint risked peeking at Coulson, his arms had dropped from across his chest and his shoulders had softened a little. His voice was softer, too, when he admitted, “I haven’t stopped, Clint. You pushed me away, so I’m going. I’m giving you what you want and trying to protect myself at the same time. This was a mistake. Living here, telling you how I felt . . . It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done any of it, and I’m sorry.”

With his heart hammering in his chest, Clint finally kept his eyes on the man in front of him. It hadn’t been a mistake. Coulson had done everything right. _Clint_ was the one who’d screwed it all to hell. Clint was the one who hadn’t known, hadn’t recognized his own emotional crap. Clint was the one who had behaved so cruelly, driving a wedge between them and fucking with Coulson’s head again and again. 

“You—” Clint cut himself off, not sure how to say all that. Instead he shook his head, hoping to convey just how _wrong_ Coulson was. Then he unstuck his feet, first his left, then his right, until suddenly he was right there with Coulson, not sure what to do but wanting so badly to make him understand.

“Clint, don’t,” Coulson said, and Clint was sorry— _so fucking sorry_ —for the way that normally strong voice sounded, for making it small and unsure. “Please don’t do this again. I’m trying to—”

Clint kissed him. He wasn’t sure that he’d meant to, or that it wasn’t another colossal misstep, but, good god _damn_ , did it feel good. He pressed closer, his body singing with need, and sank into the best fucking kiss of his life.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Clint said eventually, when the kiss had gentled with the need to breathe. “Don’t be sorry. It was brave and it was . . .” Clint didn’t have the words, so he kissed Coulson again, sweeping his tongue along Phil’s bottom lip. “Don’t be sorry.”

Coulson groaned, and his hands moved over Clint’s shoulders, and Clint was _gone_. He realized he’d grown rock hard at some point, and he desperately needed Coulson to realize it too. He shifted and put a hand on Coulson’s back, pressing him forward while Clint rocked against him.

It was the most heady experience of Clint’s life. The kisses, the breathy little sounds, the fire in Coulson’s touch. He slid his hand down to that gorgeous ass—and, fuck it _all_ , how had he only just noticed how perfect it really was, in more than just an aesthetic sense?—and Coulson pulled away and tugged frantically at Clint’s shirt.

Clint obliged him, because _fuck_ that was hot. He needed this, needed Coulson, needed his skin and his kisses and his love.

“Clint.” The sound of his name in Coulson’s rough, awed voice made Clint shiver, and he kept shivering as Phil’s hands wandered, leaving warmth in their wake. “Is this . . .”

“Happening?” Clint suggested, because he couldn’t quite believe it himself. He could only imagine the head spin Coulson must have been experiencing. “Yes.”

“In Stark’s kitchen.”

“S’our kitchen too,” Clint pointed out, because Stark had made it very clear to everyone from day one that the common areas belonged to them all.

Coulson laughed, and Clint had to kiss the sound out of his mouth. “More,” Coulson breathed, his hands tightening against Clint’s skin.

Clint pushed even closer and moved his hand to Coulson’s thigh and lifted, silently asking Coulson to wrap his leg around Clint. He didn’t care about his broken fingers, didn’t even feel them. All he needed to feel was Coulson, hard and urgent and so fucking beautiful. “C’mon. C’mon, sir.”

“Not s—” Coulson panted, and Clint knew immediately what the request would be.

“Phil,” he amended. “C’mon, Phil.”

Coulson gasped and his body arched up, shuddering as he came against Clint’s hips, Clint’s name slipping into the thin air between them. 

Clint stilled immediately, shocked at the depth of his own need to follow Coulson—Phil—over the precipice. He’d never felt like this, not once, and he never wanted Phil to let go. 

“Don’t run,” Phil said quietly, and Clint’s heart broke. What had he done to this amazing man? “Clint. Don’t run away.”

“M’not,” he said, his face still buried in the crook of Phil’s neck. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

Clint took a deep breath, not sure how to make Phil understand. “You.”

Phil, perfect as ever, started stroking his hair. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, and Clint lost the tiny bit of control he had left.

He surged up to kiss Phil, putting everything he had, everything he’d never known he’d been feeling into it. Groaning, he thrust against Phil, chasing the electricity skittering down his spine and the building rush in his stomach. He pulled Phil closer, needing more, more heat, more Phil, and said, “Want you to watch. See how real this is. M’not faking it. Not humoring you or indulging you. Not giving you a pity fuck. I want this. Want you.” 

How could he explain? How could he get Phil to understand that he knew he’d fucked up, knew he’d hurt him, and that he’d do anything to take it back? How could he, after all he’d done, ever get Phil to trust him with this again? Get him to believe that he really did want this? “I just—”

Clint didn’t have to keep talking, because Phil pulled at Clint’s hair, urging Clint’s head back. Clint gasped quietly as Phil set his lips to Clint’s exposed neck. That was . . . He’d never been able to enjoy that before, someone putting him in a position of vulnerability and then rewarding him with kisses and love bites. Coulson . . . Phil was fucking _incredible_.

The heavy, delicious knot in Clint’s gut released, pleasure rushing through him and making him shudder, until he collapsed, boneless, against Phil.

After a few long moments of hazy thoughts and afterglow, Clint’s brain started working again. He started to pull away, not sure if he was going to kiss Phil, apologize to him, or panic and run. 

Phil didn’t let him go far. “No running,” he whispered, his voice steady in Clint’s ear.

Clint sucked in a breath, then let it go, holding on to Phil for all he was worth. “No running,” he agreed.

They stood like that for God only knew how long, their hearts slowing and real life creeping back in. Clint’s ribs started to ache, and his fingers burned, but he tried to stave it all off by nuzzling against Phil’s shoulder.

“What changed?” Phil asked, his voice soft in the large kitchen.

Clint lifted his head to meet Phil’s eyes, and he hated the uncertainty in them, knowing he had put it there. “I . . . I woke up.” He knew that didn’t really explain it, and he swallowed down his fears and tried again. “You woke me up. You . . . I didn’t know this was possible for me.”

“Being with a man?”

Clint’s eyebrows drew down and he shook his head. He had to get Phil to understand. “Being with _anyone_. Romantically, sexually . . . It’s never really worked for me before. Not like this. This was—is—amazing. And not just, uh, what we just did. All of it. Trusting you, knowing you.” He exhaled shakily. “Falling for you.”

“Clint.” Phil’s expression seemed to melt, and he put his hand over Clint’s cheek.

“I want to try this, si—Phil. I know you have no reason to trust me, and the truth is I might fuck up, like, a lot, but do you think . . .” Clint couldn’t finish the request, biting his lip as he awaited his fate.

He didn’t have to wait long. “Clint,” Phil said again, with a soft smile. “I love you. If you promise to be honest, and to stop running and to face things when they go wrong, we can try this for as long as you want.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be a hell of a long time, sir,” Clint said with a smirk.

“Then I guess we have time to break you of that particular habit.”

Clint leaned in. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he breathed, just before Phil kissed the impudence right out of him.

 

_________

 

“So I hear I’m no longer needed,” Agent Mangat said, and Clint turned his head against Phil’s chest, knowing he shouldn’t be listening just because he could hear her through Phil’s phone.

“I’m sorry, Agent Mangat. I know this must be a terrible inconvenience,” Phil said, and Clint enjoyed the rumble he could feel through Phil’s thin t-shirt. “I’m sure SHIELD will reimburse you for any moving costs.”

Mangat laughed, and Clint had to smile. At least the team had liked her. It was nice to know who they could call for emergency backup. “Don’t worry about that, Agent Coulson. I never broke my lease, since I was told, by several people, at varying points over the past few weeks, not to get too excited about the position. That it might not really happen.”

Clint felt Phil stiffen beneath him, and he rubbed a soothing hand over Phil’s arm and kissed the lovely pectoral muscle beneath him. “May I ask who gave you such advice?” Phil asked.

“Stark,” she replied with a grin in her voice. “Agent Romanoff, much more subtly than Stark. Captain Rogers.” Phil shifted at that, but Mangat wasn’t finished. “Director Fury.”

“I’m sorry?” Phil asked, his voice hard, and Clint stifled his laugh against Phil’s chest.

“Yep,” Mangat confirmed cheerfully. “So please don’t worry about me, Agent Coulson. I’ve been given command of a new strike team, and assured that the sudden change is in no way a reflection of my performance.”

“Glad to hear it.” The dryness in Phil’s tone was obvious, but, to Clint, so was the relief. “Thank you, Agent Mangat.”

“No problem. Have fun unpacking! Say hello to Agent Barton for me.”

Clint let his laugh loose then, and Phil pulled his phone back to look at the disconnected call info before tossing it onto the coffee table. “Well.”

“Well,” Clint agreed, snuggling in and picking up his tablet again. “Okay, so you have to see this one post,” he said, scrolling through all the Tumblr links JARVIS has saved for him. “It’s about, like, if each sexuality could only walk in certain directions.”

Clint felt Phil’s smile pressed against his hair. “Show me.”

 

 

—the end—

**Author's Note:**

> [The directional sexuality Tumblr post](http://desert-neon.tumblr.com/post/152178732283/iamsallad-deans-missing-heterosexuality)
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> Thanks to everyone who ever commented on the original, especially those who've commented recently and helped rekindle my love for the story. And thanks to all readers who wanted this remix, for your patience.


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